Jim Chevalier - The passing of a Local Legend....a "Working Man's Hero."

Just found out about the passing of my longtime friend, musician, and artist, Jimmy Chevalier, thanks to the kindness and thoughtful posting by Jeff Beeler - thank you so much, Jeff, for sharing this, or I would not even have known... Jim Chevalier was one of the first artist/musicians I met when I moved to this area in 1986, along with his Mom, Margie, who loved jazz, and has been a quiet and steadfast friend, exchanger of perspectives, opinions, and thoughts on issues affecting many, as well as a deeply respected musician, for many years. We solved many a problem in earnest discussion, together - or at least, came up with some pretty creative solutions. I shall miss his outlook, his art, his friendship, his incredibly sensitive and talented musicianship, his encouragement, his disdain for racism in all forms, and his contribution to life, and the Christian perspective, very much. His unrelenting optimism was like an anchor in a turbulent, and often turgid, sea. God bless and keep you, Jim. R.I.P., old friend.

CHEVALIER, James Otto Darwin

1951

2026

Few people ever attain the status of a “local legend.” For one thing, you must have accomplished something memorable and transcendent. Second, you have to have lived long enough in one place to see that legend grow and take on a life of its own. Jim Chevalier, who passed away Sunday, February 8, 2026, was one of those legendary figures.

JAMES (JIM) Otto Darwin Chevalier came into this world on November 23, 1951, son of Margaret and John Chevalier, local musical legends in their own right. Together, John and Marg played hotels and bars, union halls and service clubs and for a time in the 1940’s had their own radio show where they went under the name of the Rhythm Rangers. As a child Jim would wake up during the night to a house filled with musicians playing “the coolest music” deep into the night. John was a local guitar teacher and during the height of Beatlemania he taught up two hundred and sixty kids a week all with dreams of being the next George Harrison. Jim seemed destined to become a musician.

But Jim always gave credit to childhood chum (and future musician), Ron Nielsen, for encouraging him to pick up the guitar at eleven years old and teaching him his first rock riff. After that, Jim didn’t waste any time. By fourteen, he had formed his first band, The Unit Four. That group once played a gig in the basement of a local downtown clothing store, an attempt by the owners to lure a younger demographic in to shop. Eventually, that group merged with another popular local band, The Quotations to become Sarnia’s first “super-group,” The Grass Company which now boasted a line-up of Jim, Brian McLellan, Kim Mitchell, Dave Myles and Phil Goodwin. In a time when every lyric, song title, or band name came under careful scrutiny for hidden drug references, The Grass Company courted controversy with the establishment while winning fans of the emerging counter-culture. The Grass Company later changed their name to Zoom and moved to Toronto where they eventually broke up, much to the dismay of their devoted fans.

Jim returned to Sarnia and pursued an interest in Christian theology which he maintained throughout his life. He put his beliefs into practice by forming a Christian rock band, the Level Heads, in the 1980’s with brothers Todd Gillings and Craig Gillings and Scott Douglas as a means to spread his message of love, faith and peace. In 1992, he hooked up with former Grass Company bandmate, Kim Mitchell, and together they wrote the majority of songs on Mitchell’s Aural Fixations album including “America” which became Kim’s highest charting single ever. For his collaboration, Jim won a prestigious SOCAN award (Society for Composers, Authors and Music Publishers of Canada) for songwriting.

But perhaps no musical endeavor was as close to his heart as his association with Almost Floating founded in 2002 and lasting more than twenty years. With founding Sarnia members, Brian McLellan, Samantha Pickard, Craig Gillings, and Mark Potvin, Jim and the band brought their unique fusion of rock/folk/jazz to Sarnia audiences. Despite going underground for months at a time, they would ultimately emerge with new material and re-worked older compositions, always original, intricately arranged and fully realized on stage.

As a musician, Jim was not interested in becoming a flash wunderkind on guitar or a virtuoso when older. For Jim the guitar was like a paintbrush to an artist, a useful tool for bringing vision to life, a vision of the sound and music existing in his mind. His lyrics were not designed to obscure meaning but to reveal a hidden truth. Take this:

“Love is the lamp that lights our dark spots.”

An entire belief system found in a single line. Love can light the darkness within and without as we stumble through dark and troubled time.

He was a beloved figure in our community as much for his failings as his successes. He did not always make the right choices in life. He did not spend money wisely or look too far into the future. And if he thought someone needed something more than he did, then he would give it away with nothing expected in return. He would have been the first to admit that he did not always live a Christian life but he never lost his core beliefs. That was Jim. A most complex human being.

Jim was predeceased by parents, John and Marg, his sisters Sally Dillon and Margery Beauchamp, and brother Jerry Chevalier. Jim is survived by nieces, Wendy (Beauchamp) Box and Ruth (Beauchamp) Basso who provided much comfort and light through Jim’s final days. He is also survived by a multitude of friends, close and distant; musicians and former bandmates; and all those who loved and followed the man and his music through the years. We will all carry the memory of Jim in our hearts for the rest of our days.

“Not people die but worlds die in them.” Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Letter to the Prime Minister: In support of Our CBC

----- Original Message -----
From: Dawn M. Nevills
To: PMO
Sent: Sunday, March 06, 2011 3:54 PM
Subject: CBC funding


Dear Prime Minister Harper, 

It is with great concern that I have read of proposed cuts to the CBC - to the tune of some $16,000,000.00 - at a time in our national history when the kind of qualified, professional, and concerned approach to ethical journalism and public broadcasting which they embody, is a perceived, and respected, image of our nation, globally, in many quarters, as its sole, and valued, ambassador. I don't think you quite realize how true this really is.

When governments worldwide stifle and silence their own people, funding and person years do not cover instances of crime that occur, both within and without systems of public trust, and information vital to a sense of personal existence, and our knowledge, and perception of ourselves and our communties, at a local, regional, and national level, depend upon the presence of a voice, an examination, and a concern, embodied in public broadcasting, then gutting it at the source - contrary to the wishes of the people who fund it - is of grave concern, and must be reexamined, with impunity, and respect, for those same people whose trust is now being breached with its financial destruction.

Perhaps this government does not fully understand the scope, and respect, with which the CBC is regarded nationally. Whether this is a result of xenophobia, an absence of world experience, or an ignorance regarding the reality of public broadcasting - or, rather, its totalitarian control - or, worse, absence, in the public forum - is a mystery, and, I like to think, a misunderstanding and lack of appreciation for just how vital the presence of that voice, globally, is, for the continuance of those same governmental systems which supposedly administer its own funding on behalf of the people.

It is this last responsibility - "on behalf of the people" - which disturbs me the most. No where else in the world is the quiet regard, and deep concern for the respect for objectivity and ethics in journalism, held in such esteem as in Canada. This is something that needs support and encouragement - not castigation and funding cuts - in an age of "trash talk" and "pseudo-analytical laziness regarding rehashed feeder headlines, and their supposed importance in the sphere of actual issue" , instead of hardhitting, worldchanging coverage which exposes, discusses, presents, and examines with care, objectivity, bravery, and deep, deep regard for the responsibility that the profession has, for the way in which it brings issues to light, discusses them in the public forum, and presents them for further examination, by those able to make changes, further examine, or simply ponder them, towards the shared goal of our better, truly informed and enlightened, selves. WE are leaders in this area. Other nations look with genuine regard, and a sense of deep trust, during times of internal crisis, and upheaval, as a result, to our sense of balance, and the reality of the kind of "public protection" that it provides, within a world community which serves as a watchful, objective presence, in times of change, or during issues of conflict and confrontation; and as a very real symbol of hope, for a better day, and a better way, when formulating, evolving, and developing their own systems and checks and balances of public accountability, during those times. This is a very real, and very old, example of being free, and no one should regard it with greater seriousness, or greater respect, than a government who supposedly prides itself on being an example, and a product of, that way of thinking. Destroying its foundation simply makes no sense, both literally, and figuratively speaking, and without that "sense", we are all on a path to a very dark, and very troublesome time, in our history.

It is the CBC whose ethical consideration bring to light communities unprotected from corrupted officials; the CBC who reflects the talent, and the achievements - and the shared joy and sorrows - of these same small, and sometimes isolated places, which, together, make up our national character, in addition to the power, and presence, of our busy and successful cities; the CBC whose voice, globally, presents an objective, and thoughtful, picture of the issues and crises experienced in other places in the world - and our involvement in, and responsibilities towards, these same; the CBC whose sense of history, and sense of responsibility, still make it important to be ourselves, rather than a symbiotic, or metamorphosized, "gently, but subtly, inferior", version of, another nation's sense of itself; the CBC whose determination and bravery, question - and keep - our leadership striving to be an image of a nation whose historic, and respected role, nationally, is built on trust and ethics, in a time when all of that is being threatened by decaying moral infrastructures, filth and corruption in government, disenchantment and mistrust of the sacred role of public representation, and a kind of mockery of the real gift which is embodied in the concept, and reality, of a free voice, in the world of today. It is the CBC who does not decry success, and who chides those representative of the resentment of it, and the envy which replaces what should be admiration; the CBC who reminds us that we are the sane voice, oftentimes, in a melee of fawners, cowards, and despots, and that the world depends on us to remain so, when all else shifts, and is unreliable.

Gut this extension of ourselves, and you gut yourself. You are not qualified for this surgery, nor is it required. At what point did you decide the nation, and you, as a Canadian, did not deserve the best in public broadcasting coverage? Let me remind you that not only are you worth it - you are a PART of it.

Ask the frontlines of government where they can save money: I wager they will flood your desk with examples of cost cutting. The majority of them care very much about their country, or they would not be serving it. It's their money, too. Is this so monumental a task? Perhaps the CBC should ask them, instead. I would guess that they will present you with a summary of that informal request in a matter of days. They operate well in a crisis - this is their personal goal, to be there, and to serve, as an example of the best, presumably, after all - and since you seem bent on causing yet another crisis, every time you cannot use them as a built-in propaganda machine, this service might be of some value to you, as well.....and the nation, of course, who funds them. Somebody has to solve the problem......or at least, find the solutions....... let us talk amongst ourselves, in a free world, to find it, once again, in this round table we take from the best in history; this Canada that is ours, and loved, still.


Sincere Regards,


Ms. Dawn M. Nevills, B.A., Dip. Pol. Sci., Dip. P.I., Dip. Psych.
(address and particulars listed on original message)

Club 747, the Big Twenty, and "Special Shoes"...

In the early eighties, when Jane Fonda was at her fitness guru height, and the twenty minute workout reigned at afterwork breaktime, and in the twenty minutes we somehow found before getting ready for work in the morning, dancing was actually a fashionable, and social, activity. Not satisfied to just stand and down as many alcoholic drinks as possible, part of the challenge of fashion choices involved picking something that would actually absorb the amount of perspiration which you were sure to excrete, during an evening of "shaking it".

While attending Brock University, in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada, my man and I were wont to haunt a favourite dancing venue called "Club 747", located across the river in Buffalo, U.S.A.: a unique disco club which was shaped like an airplane inside - complete with seats and tables reminiscent of same, except for the huge dance floor in the middle of the "plane".

One weekend, exhausted from grueling schedules and an inordinate amount of stress and tests, we decided to jump in the Forest green Honda hatchback, with the second of two blown-out engines in it, and head off to the "dream of flying"....two steps, and a few romantic shimmies closer, to somewhere warm and wonderful. My man, however, red headed, red bearded, and delightfully scatterbrained, in his usual long-distance-runner fashion, had forgotten that the dress code was semi formal, and, as we entered the lobby of the hotel, and headed towards the entrance to the dance club, the bouncer - a huge man named, appropriately, "Tiny" - looked balefully at my guy's running shoes, squinted painfully, and shook his head. We backed away from the entrance, with Blue Beard looking rather sheepishly at me, and apologizing profusely for forgetting to change his shoes.

"What in the world are we doing to do?" I said, out loud, shaking my head. This was long before Walmart and 24 hour available malls boasting both dance shoes and endless open hours of shopping convenience. Retail, and the world, shut down at six, and the doors clicked shut firmly until Monday morning. We were doomed. 

Mur looked devastated.  

"I could borrow someone's shoes", he said suddenly, eyes brightening, and a smile lighting up his face. He grinned. "I mean, I could rent them. We're in a hotel! Surely someone will lend me their shoes for four hours."

I looked at his face, laughing. This was not the first time he had come up with an unusual solution to a would-be mishap. I liked the idea on principle: no one would probably believe it, if we actually succeeded.

The first would-be person entering the hotel lobby looked at us ruefully, raising his head slightly to catch what he was sure would be the overpowering smell of alcohol. When he realized we were serious about paying him twenty dollars to borrow his shoes for the night, and sober, he stared at us oddly, his head in a kind of slow swizzle, which caused him to almost bang into a pole, as he walked confusedly towards the check in area of the hotel. I doubt anyone had ever asked him anything unusual at all, judging from the response we got.

The second man looked at his shoes, looked at Mur, looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, "Are you nuts?"....and walked STRAIGHT into the pole. I felt rather bad at this, and said so to him. He shuffled quickly towards the desk, nursing his head, where he'd bashed it on the pole. There was a huge red mark, like a thumb print, in the middle of his forehead, as if he'd been stamped like a passport. The desk clerk looked at him oddly, as he sidled up with his baggage, casting furtive glances at us over his shoulder. We thought we were goners, when a whispered conversation with the clerk had him peering suspiciously at us, squinting myopically from the desk, in case we were trying to mug guests entering the lobby.

Finally, number three brought a sense of humour, if a somewhat testy size match. Mur looked balefully at me, while he chewed on his lip, as he sized up the man's feet, and we approached like Hari Krishnas on a gentle mission of peace, waving the twenty dollar bill like a flag of possibility between friends.

"Hi there!" said Mur brightly. "How'd you like to make twenty bucks?". I winced at the open joviality. The man looked at me strangely, and Mur cleared his throat.

"ER....um...it's not what you think." He looked at me, apologetically. "Could I, um, rent your shoes for the night? My girl and I drove all the way from Canada to come dancing at the 747, and I, um...wore running shoes accidentally. They won't let us in the club."

The man, a somewhat portly gentleman with feet approximately a half size smaller than Mur's, smiled, finally, sizing me up, and looked at us affectionately.

"Rent my shoes, eh?" He chuckled. "Well, now, that's about the strangest thing anyone's ever asked me." He looked at both of us. "Pretty damned funny, you crazy Canadian kids. You could probably buy a new pair for that much money, son." He looked at Mur kindly, reached into his carryon luggage, and pulled out a shoe bag. Opening it, Mur pulled out one plain, shiny, lace up black Oxford.

"Think mebbe they'll be a bit tight, but loosen up the laces a bit, and you'll be alright. You can hang the shoe bag on Room 48." He turned to go, stopped, and then took a step towards us. "And I'll leave YOUR shoes outside my door after twelve, just so's I know I'll get mine back, if you don't mind." He held out his hand for them. Mur grinned. He'd never had his shoes taken hostage before. It was kind of unique.

He sat down in the middle of the lobby, put the man's shoes on, and handed his over, along with the twenty dollar bill. The man headed towards his hotel room, whistling and tucking the twenty dollar bill in his pocket. He swung the running shoes from his hand, which he had tied together, like a cradle. The desk clerk, surveying the scene, waved and grinned.

"Found some!" he called from the desk. He gave a thumbs up, and winked. Mur laughed out loud, as he stood up, tucked my hand under his arm, and headed towards the club entrance.

"How are they?" I said, worriedly. He sighed, looked at me, and kissed my cheek.

"They're too tight", he said, cheerfully. "I'll have blisters tomorrow for sure." He grinned. "Let's go, baby."

Tiny looked at us oddly, as we appeared at the door again, looked at Mur's feet, and waved us in, smiling.

Approximately an hour later, when the pain of a half size had begun to shred the skin on the outside of his toes, Tiny also said nothing when we spent the rest of the evening with me dancing with a sock-footed partner. Apparently, the desk clerk had told him the whole thing, because he pointed at the shoes, held up his wallet, and smiled, when we both looked worried that we might get kicked out.

The socks were never the same again, having cut a rug for four solid hours, but as the last dance sounded, we swayed our last slow groove, and then tiptoed down the hallway towards the room where Mur's running shoes had been taken hostage, we arrived to find the following note hung on the doorknob:

"Happy Valentine's Day. I hope I get invited to the wedding." The twenty dollar bill was taped to the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and the running shoes were placed neatly, toes outward, waiting for their owner. Laughing quietly, we hung the bag with the dress shoes on the doorknob, tucked the sign, and the twenty back into the shoe, as promised, and wrote two x's, and two o's underneath with a pencil I fished out of my purse.

"Way better than bowling", said Mur, dryly, as we headed towards the parking lot, hugging me. I laughed, and hugged him back.

The Spoils of War

 True it is, that Rage feeds Evil, 

And all the appetites that urge a man to live are twisted into darkness, in the doing, 

Till even hunger, mined into a Pit of Wound, and tossed a weapon maggot into the seething chasm, feeds upon Itself, 

While the gold of busy Death is smelted with Men's bones. 

No light enters here; no blinking morning birds; no misted hills awash with greyed and tremulous dew,

Cooling the molten shrieks of maw and groan. 

The dry and rock-strewn ground is churned with builder's dust, 

And Men's "blood of endless new bloodings" stirs a grim and writhing mix of fluid and stone. 

 No corner anchor here,

Fulcrum-rich with echoed song, and storied awe,

Only grinding steel, and teeth, and flash, and shriek, silent in the ink, 'till even the canopy of Heaven

Would hide its True Star from Death's Jealous Touch, 

And Shroud the exploding fingers of steel with 

Omnipotent, Relentless, Defiant Tears of 

Tumult's Absence, in 

Mute, "Scream painted transmit", Celestial chiding, at the 

Doings of Men.      

Queen of Soil

 The Queen of Soil

I've not yet met The Queen of Soil, Peculiar that she is,

(I understand she had a mole, that had its own weird frizz.)

In layered terms, no one is sure, just where the orb sprang forth,

But "Sure as Hell", my neighbour says, he's "damned sure they're up North."

Dawn M. Nevills

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Random equations. Dawn M. Nevills

 Surely, think I, this insidious, creeping malady cannot make us turn on ourselves, reawaken old hatreds, ignite old fears, stoke mistrusts, feed blind greed....salve nothing but disregard in moments still so possible with potential.

Surely, think I, this being called Man, this shell, this thing that is me, too - with all of these tools - cannot forget the Breath on Clay that made him Whirlwind, realized: miraculous Accident of the Ages, exploded and knit together, over millenia, like molded rocks, shocked back to life, and fulcrum wiser.  

Surety: the thing of children, comforted. The Mirror of the Ages, held. Time, still, for Patience, achieved.

Agony, that it has taken so many patients. The Lesson learned, again.

whirl away world

 whirl away, world

between the plates the air will sigh and furl

the tears will tickle soft between the stones

and man will pause to 

listen and

consider them again

humbly

dawn m. nevills 

Just Be

 If there is love and light, then letting it shine is To Be.

If we are to be, then being is always Something, even if we think we are Nothing.

From Nothing came Let There be Light.....and there Was.

It was Spoken. It was Done. 

We Be.

Nothing Can be Done because when we know Nothing, 

There is always Something to be Learned.

Nothing sure is Something, ain't it?✌😇

Wished Upon

 Trail on, streak of thought.

Wide is the gap upon which these threads of being surface,

Dappled, as they are, with quarks and quicks and manytimesagos;

Brilliant spasms of new molds sprinting like sprites

Across a vast mindfulness. 

Trill, then, past ego whirls and caped and capping fury;

Beyond, where the vast and varied treeseeds sparkle,

Breathing my name.   

Be a Global Parent with Unicef

PEACE. I would have peace for my Friends.
I would have Peace for their dark-eyed babies, their blue-eyed babies, their hazel-eyed babies,
dreaming softly of a star-filled sky, far away from the wretched ground, beckoning;
The reeking puddles; the squalor; the shrieking.
I would have peace for the pang of hunger; the stab of thirst; the anguished heart, languishing and bereft, believing itself Forgotten.
I would have Peace for the Angry woman hearts, whose Mother love knows no boundaries, no borders, no languages: only cries and whimpers, seen, heard and unfound.
The quiet Father love prayers, that strengthen other Men, restrain anger and violence, renew fierce Friendship, and make a way where there seemed none amidst such seeming Power in the world, to make it so.
They are Global Parent tears; Global Parent Hearts: they speak all languages, love all names for God, clasp each other's hands in shared Grief, and remembered Joy.
I would have Peace for these Women, even now; I would have Peace for their injured, aching, saddened, strong-but-tired Men, their Lost or Living Lovers, their stolen Babies.
I would have Peace for my own. I would have Peace for them all.
Peace, after all...just a step away from Love.